


Iced Dragon's Blood

by InkFire_Scribe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Jealous Jon Snow, Naked Dany, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-22 19:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16603850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFire_Scribe/pseuds/InkFire_Scribe
Summary: Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen go forth to crush an uprising in the north, and get more than they bargained for. Based on a request for a situation in which Dany is naked.





	1. The Battle and the Ambush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [House_Hornwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_Hornwood/gifts).



**** The air she breathed tasted of ice. Everything smelled of winter and fur and warm, sweaty leather. Between her thighs, Drogon’s enormous flanks heaved gently in and out, his breathing all but lost in the thunderous sweep of wings. Below, the banners were scattered like pegs on a war map. Red on black for the remains of House Bolton, and gods only knew where they’d been holed up while the rest of the North was fighting an army of frozen undead. Grey on white for the Starks. Except for one place - at the top of the hill. She leaned into Drogon's sweeping turn as they circled the hill, the white direwolf on the grey field snapping in the wind of their passing. Jon reined in his shaggy white garron as the beast tossed his head nervously, and the banner at his stirrup bobbed as though it too were afraid of the dragon. They had tried getting the Stark animals accustomed to the dragons, but only the dogs were stupid enough to approach more than once.

Daenerys signaled to her lover so he would know the distribution of their enemies. If the Boltons were stupid enough to fight on, then they would meet a swift end at the behest of Jon Snow. Her heart swelled with pride as she and Drogon swept upward and the Stark men began to advance, flanked by the smaller forces of the Glovers and Hornwoods.

If she had been a betting woman, Daenerys felt she might have put money on this turning into a rout within the first five minutes of battle. Perhaps within the first two. But she knew little of the Boltons, and was therefore surprised when the Bolton men surged forward to meet their enemy in the open, forsaking the meager shelter of the oak and maple copse they had cowered in after their last engagement with the Stark force.

There were maybe a hundred fifty fighting warriors under the Bolton flayed man, sprinting toward their deaths. More than twice that number were waiting to meet them, though a hundred men or more held the hilltop while the rest used the advantage of their higher ground to smash into the Bolton lines. As they had agreed, Daenerys urged Drogon down toward the fight and shouted the command - fire spewed from his open maw like a river of liquid destruction. Even seated just in front of his powerful shoulders, she could feel the heat of it through her armor. It felt good. The fire splashed against the open land between the Bolton rear guard and the copse. Nothing would burn long in this damp, but it was enough to change the feelings of the men nearest the fire. She saw a handful of warriors - cowards - dart off to one side or the other, trying to escape the battle.

Drogon swerved to follow them. She couldn’t blame him. They looked so much like fleeing prey. Still, she grabbed a handful of his webbed neck frill and gave it a yank, letting him know now was not the time for hunting. These people were Jon’s prey, not Drogon’s. The dragon protested with a muffled roar, but gave up on the chase, turning back to the battle and beating his wings to stay out of bowshot. There was no need to tempt fate when there were so many other ends they might flirt with.

Scanning the hillside, Daenerys spotted Jon’s banner in the thick of the fighting, leading the spear-point thrust that would cleave the Bolton force in half. He was nearly through, Longclaw flashing in the watery light filtering through damp clouds.

Drogon turned his head unexpectedly downward and folded his wings to stoop on the battlefield. Daenerys clung to her seat, squinting against the scream of chill wind over the dragon’s hide. He landed with a earth-jarring impact, the talons of his impressive paws spearing a wounded horse through the chest, effectively tearing the animal in half as men from all houses scattered like chaff under his wings. Almost before Daenerys had regained her breath, Drogon’s head dipped down to roast the steaming flesh of the beast. Though she couldn’t see it, the Mother of Dragons could smell it well enough, and the scent of hot blood and charring meat turned her stomach as nothing else could.

Drogon was tall, but not tall enough to keep her out of harm’s way, when there were plenty of spears and bows in the hands of frightened men. Already, some were taking aim at the black dragon, and Daenerys flattened herself against Drogon’s back, drawing up her legs as much as she could. Arrows pinged off Drogon’s scales, and one glanced off the metal sleeve around her left calf. Jon had ordered them custom made for her to protect her legs against Drogon’s hot scales and enemy arrows. Now she was blessing him fervently and gripping Drogon’s dorsal frill, willing him back into the sky.

More than once the ragged punctures of arrow wounds had taunted her from the delicate membrane of dragon wings. How many hours had she spend carefully sewing flaps of skin back into place, wondering if her "children" might not tear off her arm as she worked? Drogon's head continued to jerk up and down as he ripped chunks of meat from the carcass. Another arrow skipped off his scales very near her hand, and Daenerys said some very unladylike words as she uncoiled the long whip from about her waist.

It was the only weapon she was proficient with, and only because she'd used it to train her dangerous, carnivorous children.

Down lashed the whip. A bowstring snapped. Down again, and a man screamed as the tip licked him across the face. Dany switched hands and snapped the whip again, though her aim wasn’t as good with her off hand. Rather than ripping the weapon out of a charging swordsman’s hand, instead she struck him between the legs. The warrior clenched up like a frightened pill bug, clutching his wounded manhood as he collapsed.

A knight armed with a broken lance charged Drogon from from behind. She saw him from the corner of her eye only just before the splintered tip of the weapon caught Drogon on the inner thigh. Dark blood spattered the ground as the dragon lunged forward with a roar of pain. While both horse and rider were flattened by the lashing tail, neither Drogon nor Daenerys could enjoy the effect, as one took flight in a violent flurry of wings, and the other clung to his back for dear life. 

* * *

 

The dragon heaved himself skyward on straining wings, bellowing challenges to the human gnats that dared sting his royal hide. It was all Dany could do to keep him in the air, instead of killing everything in sight, friend as well as foe. Drogon had little understanding of which humans were “good” and which were “bad,” only knowing that his mother seemed to like some more than others.

With an effort, she pulled her whip back to herself and coiled it again around her waist, relying on the straps around her legs to keep her secure. It seemed a tenuous thing, though, and Dany held on as soon as her hands were free. Drogon roared and wheeled above the battle, sending horses bolting in every direction while men fought to control their panicking beasts. There was no sign of Jon or his banner, but what she did see made her blood run cold.

Out of the north (why was it all the bad things always came out of the north?) approached a tight line of greyish figures, bearing no banner and no house colors that she could tell. But lumbering behind them was the grotesque, hairy figure of a giant, arms swinging, a heavy club in one hand.

Whether Drogon took offense at the giant’s presence or the dragon sensed Daenerys’ fear was not clear, but once he’d seen the approaching wights, there was no stopping him. He dove, screaming, talons extended and spewing flame from his open maw. His head and neck were engulfed bright tongues of fire, licking backward along his body as the air itself resisted their descent.

_I am the blood of the dragon,_ she assured herself, and closed her eyes against the screeching wind. She fumbled with the whip, and wondered if it would be any good against wights. In the Battle of Frozen Plains, she had carried a sword out of necessity. Today she had none, and regretted it.

Daenerys opened her eyes. She saw the club swinging upward, even as the giant’s filthy pelt caught fire. Drogon swerved wildly to one side, but it wasn’t enough. The club swept up through the delicate phalanges of Drogon's right wing, snapping the bones and tearing the membrane from trailing pinion to muscled forelimb.

And then they were falling, spinning, screaming. Dragon and rider fell to earth in spectacular display of fire and blood. Their landing was a bone-jarring impact that send Dany smashing into the hard black scales before her, the leather straps of her saddle bruising her legs as they were pulled tight. Disoriented and in pain, Daenerys seemed to see blue eyes peering at her from every side as she struggled to free herself, but when she finally tore free, leaving behind the armor that had protected her legs, she realized they were completely alone. Drogon was whining to himself and craning his neck to lick his wounded wing without extending it again.

Shaking, Daenerys tumbled out of the saddle and down his flank, scraping her hands raw as she tried to catch herself. Drogon shifted restlessly around her, his tail twitching spasmodically and his wing scattering drops of blood as he moved. Despite her dizziness, she grasped the outer edge of the injured wing to make Drogon hold still, and didn't let go even when he growled at her. It looked like only the second "finger" of his wing had been broken, though the membrane was torn from edge to forelimb. The stitching would be easy, if tedious. The bone, though... she didn't know what to do about that. She was no farrier, accustomed to setting bones in animals larger than herself. 

Her hands went automatically to the pouches on her belt, but when she grabbed them to feel their contents, they disintegrated in her hands. Daenerys looked down at herself, finding that not only was she soot-blackened from head to toe, but a lot of her leather armor was scorched to pieces, probably from Drogon’s last reckless dive. The big black dragon stretched his neck, pushing his nose against her chest, seeking comfort. With a sigh, she rubbed his muzzle and jaw, glancing around again and only then realized where they must be. The trees on her left were tall oaks and maples. And on the right there was a steep hill, descending into a narrow valley that might have been filled with water at some point in the past. Now it was just trampled snow and the remnants of a hasty camp. One listing post still wore a ragged black banner.

Daenerys bit back an oath. They couldn’t stay here. If the Boltons retreated, they would come straight through this valley, and she and Drogon were right in their way. Beyond the trees, she could hear the sound of the battle still raging, screams and the clatter of weapons the whinny of horses.

“Go,” she hissed at the dragon, and gave his muzzle a push. He hardly even swayed. “Get on, you great lump. I won’t let them have you.”

Rather than leaving, the dragon lifted his head, red eyes narrowing as he opened his jaws to hiss threateningly. A beat later, she heard what Drogon had already detected. Hoofbeats. 


	2. In Which the Blood of the Dragons Goes Au Naturel

The thunder of hoofbeats pounded at her ears as the unseen horse approached at a panicked gallop from the direction of the battle. Daenerys drew back her whip, the mild tremor running through her body going all but unnoticed. This was no place for fear. Drogon's angry hissing deepened into a growl that shook her bones as the horse burst from the trees, lips peeled back in a scream of terror as it tried to turn back on itself and disappear the way it had come. The whip whistled as it sped toward the rider, wrapping around his arm with a snap and dragging him from the saddle.

The rider hit the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from his body. Drogon sprang, his huge body temporarily airborne as he pounced on his fleeing prey - the horse that was bolting for the safety of the trees. In a second, the poor animal was pinned under talons as long as Dany's arms and the dragon was bellowing his triumph. Daenerys sprang as well, her armor cracking and crumbling around her body, landing hard on the rider's chest to keep him down and scrabbling for his knife. If she was to win this fight, if she was to survive on foot, she needed his blade.

Except it wasn't there.

Her fingers found the empty sheath and her heart fell. Killing him would be harder without a blade. One of his hands closed around her forearm, but as she leaned back to jerk away, he wheezed her name. "Dany!" It was hardly more than a gasp, but when she looked into his face, she saw familiar grey eyes looking back at her through a layer of mud and blood.

"Jon!" His name jumped from her tongue, a combination of startlement, apology, and relief. But in a moment, she was on her feet again. As welcome as the reunion was, they couldn't afford to stay here. Even now she imagined she could feel the earth shake under the approaching stride of the giant.

Drogon was looking at them now, his muzzle smeared with blood which rapidly darkened and dried on his hot scales. Her sudden movement must have caught his attention, and now the dragon was studying them in much the same way he watched a flock of sheep, deciding which to carry off for his supper. Fear boiled in her chest as she remembered those long months in which her children had been raging animals, too powerful for her to control, too angry for her to soothe.

“No. He’s mine, and you don’t touch him.” Even to her own ears, the words were unconvincing. There was too much of fear in them. Drogon would hear it for certain. He stared at her with eyes like molten stone, and it was a struggle to push aside the memory of a hundred dreams, wherein she had watched those very same eyes lose their light and their color, turning icy, brittle blue.

“He is mine!” she shouted, this time with more force as she snapped the whip, reminding him who was the parent, and who the child. Jon said something, but she wasn't listening. Drogon snarled at her, and she snarled back, covering her fear with anger, puffing herself up, flicking the whip again so it cracked loudly near his ear.

The great black head darted forward, jaws open, heat rippling forth like the open mouth of a smith's forge. Jon yelled, though whether in pain or fear wasn't clear. Dany lashed the dragon across the muzzle, and Drogon jerked back to avoid a cut to the eye. Like an offended cat, he arched his back and hissed, but retreated down the hill toward the empty camp. Not an ideal place for him to be, but Dany would have to trust him to take care of himself.

"Help me up. We have to get away." Jon's voice was strained tight with pain, like a harp tuned too high. Looking back at him, Dany saw blood smeared on his armor, his white pallor, and half an arrow protruding from his shoulder, He clutched the arm to his chest as though afraid that if he let go, it would break, and she had a guilty suspicion that when she'd pulled him off his mount, she'd both driven the arrow deeper and broken the shaft. Swiftly, she went to his side.

“Can you walk?”

“I can always walk.”

Dany heaved him to his feet. He wasn’t a light man. Someone else was staggering through the wood not too far away, and Dany was eager to avoid meeting him if at all possible. There was far too great a chance that it was someone unfriendly to both of them.

They started off at a quick but ragged walk, Jon's unsteady stride betraying unseen injuries.

“What happened to you?” His question was a breathless whisper which she suspected was intended to distract him from his own pain. Glancing down at herself, Dany remembered why he would ask. Pieces of her armor were missing now, exposing pale flesh beneath. The rest was charred, crisped, and ragged.

“Drogon’s flame is very hot,” she replied shortly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Did he burn you?”

She scoffed. “I’m the blood of the dragon,” she reminded him imperiously. “Nothing burns me.” If the skin of her cheeks and knuckles still stung a little, he didn’t need to know that. It was the sort of ability she’d never been inclined to fully test, for obvious reasons.

Every moment, she expected to hear the twang of a bowstring or the hiss of a blade swinging through the air. Though the battle sounds continued behind them, they grew gradually quieter. It was looking more and more likely that they had somehow escaped without being noticed. Or at least, without being followed.

* * *

 

When they stopped - rather, when Jon let her stop - the world around them was quiet. That didn’t signify, since the Others were always silent, but it at least lowered the number of folk that might be following them. Daenerys’ shoulders and back ached with the effort of keeping Jon on his feet, and she was glad of an excuse to sit.

A crust of ice crunched under their weight as they sat on a mossy log, sides touching. Without Drogon about, Daenerys could feel the chill of the air, though it didn't seem uncomfortable - just mildly annoying. Her gaze fell on the arrow that had punched through Jon's chain maille. It would be hard to remove it without hurting him more, but leaving it in might result in infection or the shaft being caught on something as they traveled. Returning to the battlefield for help seemed a lot like suicide, not knowing whether it was the Starks that had triumphed or the Night King's lackeys.

"How does it look?" Jon's voice was tight with pain, and she winced sympathetically at the sound. On the one hand, she hated to see him in pain. On the other hand, her heart burned with pride for him. He was strong. Strong like a dragon.

"Bad," she told him honestly. "I'll have to either pull it through or break it off, assuming your armor doesn't get too much in the way." Then again, it was likely enough that his damaged chain maille was part of the injury itself, pinching and tearing his skin so the lips of the wound would be ragged and open to infection.

"Let me..." He trailed off, tugging at his surcoat with his good hand.

That wouldn't do. He was covered in mud, and even if she took the time to wash his coat or even his tunic, he would freeze to death when evening came. Dany stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I can make bandages from my undershirt," she told him gently. "Just don't move about too much while I'm wrapping you up. You know how much I hate it when my knots don't cooperate." A smile crept into her voice as she teased him, and she was gratified by an answering smile on his lips as well, though his pallor under the mud was greyish. She hoped that was just the pain and not blood loss. There was only so much she could do for him out here in the wilderness.

With stiff fingers, she broke away the remainder of her armor, which was all but ruined anyway, and pulled off her long-sleeved undershirt to rip into bandages for him. It was a little sooty, but soot was better than mud on an open wound. Once the shirt was off, she struggled to tear it properly. Without a knife to start the tear, it was a lot harder than it looked, and in the end she had to make Jon do it for her while she inspected his shoulder and how best to remove the blasted arrow.

It was crooked, but there was enough showing that she could wrap both hands around the shaft and still leave two inches showing. From the angle, the head and some of the shaft were buried in the thick muscle of his shoulder, and she was willing to bet it was barbed, too.

"This is going to hurt," she told him, giving the shaft the gentlest of tugs. Jon hissed softly, but nodded, continuing grimly with his task of tearing her shirt into strips. She wore only a few clinging pieces of leather around her legs now, and considered breaking them off as well, before they start to chafe. Yet despite the touch of the frigid breeze on her bare skin, she felt only the slight inconvenience of being exposed to the wind, rather than the bitter cold she knew would deaden and blacken the skin of a man in the night.

"I can feel... warmth from you." Jon sounded puzzled, even as she grasped the arrow in both hands. "Like you were carrying a-" He cut off with a wordless grunt of pain, eyes streaming as the head of the arrow tore muscle and skin on the way out. It was barbed, as she'd thought, and maybe it would have been kinder to let a maester do it - or was least to get him drunk first. But they didn't have that sort of luxury on hand at the moment.

When Jon was breathing again, he started a steady stream of curses that didn't stop for several minutes, even as he handed her strips of cloth and lifted his arms so she could pull off his chain maille. In a few minutes, the wound was properly bound and through the exercise of helping Jon pull his armor back on, Daenerys lost the last of her own. She was now completely naked in the winter wilds of the north, with no weapon but a whip and no companion but the man she loved, whom was badly injured and smelled of blood.

"We've been in worse situations," she murmured, "but I can't think of any off the top of my head, and I think I'd rather not. Now, before those walking corpses find us, let's get out of here. Can you walk?"

"I can always walk."

Daenerys smirked, helping him to his feet again and pleased to find that he was a little steadier than he had been. Maybe the pain had cleared his head a little. "You know, love, if I didn't know better, I would say you had a bit of the blood of the dragon in you." By the way he glanced at her, he wasn't sure if she was teasing. She grinned at him to be sure he knew that she absolutely was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love it when she relaxes enough to tease him. :)


	3. A Wolf and a Dragon

As the sun's watery light faded from the clouds overhead and the shadows about them deepened, Daenerys and Jon left the trees behind. The wind almost immediately started to pick up, flinging stinging flakes of ice and snow at them from the long stretch of hill ahead and to either side. There was no sign of the road, and considering the hour that was probably just as well.

"We need to find somewhere to hole up for the night." Jon sounded as haggard as he looked. "Aren't you cold?"

Daenerys opened her mouth to answer, but saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned just in time to hear the crunch of snow under a boot and see the wild look of crazed triumph in the man's eyes. Brown eyes, she noticed, as though this were the more important thing to think about right now. He had a knife in his hand - no, it was a short sword. And it was aimed at Jon's back.

Several things happened in quick succession. She let go of her beloved. The attacker's blade struck him just to the right of his spine, and Jon fell. The whip cracked, almost of its own accord, the sharp tip cutting deep into the man's forearm and neck as the sinuous leather twined around them like a living thing, like a striking snake, like a dragon's claw. But it wasn't his sword arm. The blade came up, severing the leather before she could yank him off balance.

Dany lashed him again, but the balance of her weapon was all wrong now that the last three feet of leather was missing. The fraying end smacked his face and he stumbled back, reminding her suddenly of another swordsman from the battle earlier. Purposefully this time, and with as much force as she could muster, the woman swung her weapon up between his legs. She felt the solid impact of leather against meat, and heard her opponent squeak in pain and surprise. As he lowered his sword, intending to hold himself, Dany hit him again, this time driving the stiff wooden handle of her whip into his stomach. The man fell with a wheeze, dropping his weapon completely.

If this was how easy it was for a man to be defeated, why were battles so bloody? She took up his sword. She would kill him. She would protect Jon from these men who wanted him dead.

Then the fallen man reached up and grabbed her between the legs. He seized a handful of flesh and hair and his fingers were hard inside their leather glove. It hurt. Her mind flashed back to nights with men. Dark, frightening, sometimes painful. Not like this, but painful. The anger that burned in her flared suddenly and she swung the sword so hard her shoulder burned with the effort of it. The blade sank into his neck and lodged against his spine with a grating sound like iron nails against stone.

His whole body shuddered, a spray of blood darkened the snow, and after a moment of truly horrifying gurgling noises, he collapsed backward, dead. Images played in her mind, reminding her of the other deaths she'd witnessed. Her brother. Drogo. The men of her khalasar. The elders in the room with the rotting heart. That might yet have been a vision, but she tended to think it was as real as her wedding night.

Still... this was a different experience. The warm blood, the living flesh, the sharp blade, the grating of bone against metal. None of it would leave her anytime soon. It would join the other memories, the stains on her past. It was past now. There was nothing she could do to change it.

"You didn't have to do that." Jon hadn't bothered to get up. He was still on the ground, looking up at her with a sort of sad expression, as if he was remembering something as well. What did he remember when he saw the spray of blood on snow? Was it his first kill, or something else?

"I did. It wasn't safe to let him live." Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady. She felt cold inside, but not like the wind was cold. Cold like... like she was empty. Trembling, she knelt beside Jon, turning her back on the bloody corpse.

"We can shelter from the wind on the other side of the hill."

Dany was grateful he didn't push the topic. It wasn't until she had him on his feet again, her aching back bowed under his weight, that she thought to ask. "Did he hurt you?"

"I'll have another bruise, but it's nothing I can't handle. I'm the Direwolf, remember?" He gave her a half-hearted smile. "So long as I have my mate, I'll get along somehow."

Yes. He needed her. And she needed him, too.

"A wolf and a dragon."

"Will they nest, or burn each other?" Jon's question was faint. Maybe if she hadn't been so preoccupied with her own thoughts, she would have asked him what he meant.

* * *

 

Morning was a long time in coming. When it did, the world was covered in frost and the cloak that covered them was liberally dusted with snow. It was natural, Dany supposed, to be reluctant to leave the relative comfort and warmth of their little hollow, but knowing that the cold wouldn't bite her and further being aware of their need to return to Winterfell as quickly as possible motivated her to get to her feet.

Stretching herself luxuriously from head to toe, Daenerys reached for the sky, regretting the absence of her dragons. Their winged forms made her feel safe and at home, even when she was traveling. The idea that she had left them behind, even temporarily, made her uneasy. Where was Rhaegal, and what was he doing now? Was Drogon safe, wherever he was? Was his wing alright?

With a sigh, she turned to look down at Jon and found him watching her, his eyes a little glassy. Suspecting a fever, she knelt beside him, putting a hand on his forehead.

"I've never seen anyone so beautiful in my life," he murmured, still looking up at her as though he hadn't noticed her concern. As though... ah. Daenerys glanced downward at the long length of pale skin from shoulder to ankle. An eyeful, to be sure. And a problem, if they were going to try to find the King's Road.

"You're such a man," she muttered, giving him a light shove as she stood again. Her hair was still up in its braid from yesterday, but there was all manner of dirt and soot in it by now, and she felt the need to uncoil and comb her long silvery tresses. It was as she rose that she felt a hand trail along her buttocks, and muffled a rather undignified shriek as she jumped away from the unexpected contact. Whirling, she glared down at Jon, who was grinning foolishly up at her, one hand still extended to caress the air where she had been crouched a moment before.

"Men!" she exclaimed in amused exasperation, and in retribution, stole his cloak and forced him to his feet in order to get it back from her. If it had been anyone else, then she might not have allowed him to stay on his feet. She remembered too well the reaction of a man struck in the fork of his legs, and toyed with the idea of exacting her revenge more violently against her lover. But no. He was injured and besides that, she had no desire to cause him discomfort, let alone pain.

"I couldn't help it," he apologized sheepishly, smiling crookedly at her. "I don't often get to see you like that in daylight when my head's on straight."

"You mean when you're not drunk off your nut?" she asked, maybe a little more sharply than she'd meant to. When he looked hurt, she regretted it. "I'm sorry. There are... there were other men in my life before you that... alcohol didn't improve them any." Her mind strayed back to nights on the endless Dothraki Sea, the sour smell of fermented mare's milk, the weight of her pregnant belly, and the hard, demanding hands of her husband waking her from sleep.

"I don't want to be like them." One of his hands slipped gently around her waist, drawing her closer as though to support her. His fingers were cool against her skin, and though a part of her wanted to pull away, Daenerys knew that Jon Snow would never hurt her. Never. She turned in the circle of his arms, facing him so she might properly show her devotion and appreciation, but her eyes caught on something just over his shoulder. Something grey and white and frighteningly blue.

The wight was lifting a long knife when she saw it, and Dany had but a second to jerk Jon out of the way. He yelped in pain as she pulled on his injured arm, but she couldn't bring herself to feel very badly about it when it meant that he hadn't been stabbed.

Even as Jon whirled and drew the short sword from his belt they'd taken from their attacker yesterday, she could see he was slowed by his injuries. The wight adjusted its stance and advanced again, as swift and sure as if it had still been alive. In life, Daenerys thought it might have been a wildling woman. At least, it had a feminine-ish shape. By then, she had her whip out and shuffled around to one side, trying to get a clear shot at the creature.

Jon didn't have that kind of time, though. He swung the sword so hard it whistled, missing the wight's legs by a hair as it leapt back out of the way. Dany's whip snaked out, frayed ends smacking hard against the wight's chest and neck. It didn't seem to notice at all, advancing again with the same malignant purpose as before. Dany stepped closer and struck again, this time at the backs of the knees. The wight stumbled, the knife hand coming up to slash at Jon's hands. He chopped at the oncoming arm, severing it just below the elbow. Another blow took off the second arm. It was still coming, teeth gnashing, and now the arms were wriggling on the ground, grabbing for their ankles. The head came off. Then the legs. Jon left it in pieces, rapidly retreating to avoid the still crawling arms.

"The road," he said shortly.

"Agreed." Dany tied the remains of her whip about her waist and ducked under his arm to support him. He was bleeding again - swinging that sword had opened the wound on his shoulder.

With all possible speed, they made their way to the top of the hill. There was the copse they'd come from. There was the trampled, bloody earth where the battle had taken place yesterday, less than ten miles away. And there was a line of the King's Road, and a procession of tiny horsemen bearing grey banners. They hurried on, and Jon made Daenerys put on his cloak.

"They're my men," he agreed with a scowl, "but you're my woman, and I'm not sharing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received news today that my Nana has passed away. You might expect something a little less cheerful than normal to crop up here in the nearish future.


	4. In Which Coming Home is Complicated

"You don't honestly think...?"

"What? That they was tellin' the truth?"

"Well, no. I mean... d'you really think that woman's the queen?"

"You keep starin' like that, and I'll bet you an acorn to an oak you'll find out in a hurry."

The men had been whispering since dawn, exchanging covert glances as they led the way on foot. They were to reach Winterfell that day, and with luck they would do so without incident. Daenerys kept her eyes on the packed dirt and mud of the road as she guided her steed around a sloppy puddle. Loose fabric flapped a little around her body in a breeze that couldn't decide which direction it was going as her borrowed tunic played with the wind like a ship's sail. If there was more arm or neck showing than was appropriate, she wasn't going to make a fuss about it. After all, men were men, and she secretly liked to see the jealousy on Jon's face as he tried to keep them from looking at her.

Her braid swung heavily from one side to the other as she turned her head to see where Jon was. He was never far, and when she spotted him, he was already urging his mount to walk beside hers, so they were knee to knee. There were dark shadows under his eyes from long nights spent watching his own men, ensuring none of them touched Daenerys uninvited. His pallor wasn't so grey anymore, which was good, but without his cloak he looked cold.

"Yes, my queen?"

So formal. "Jon, you know better."

"The men won't thank me for my familiarity."

"Then let them learn to handle their own jealousy." She gave him a stern look, and smiled when he glanced away, a sure sign that he was giving in.

"I only want to serve you," he murmured, his tone one of absolute devotion. It lit a fire in her heart to hear it, but at the same time she worried that this was a sign he would go the way of the others. The men who said they served her, loved her... she shook her head. Jon was different. He had to be.

"I have too few friends, and too many servants." From the way his eyes softened, she saw that he had taken her meaning. She gave him a smile, as grateful for his keen mind and quick understanding as she was for his warm heart and heated kisses. As if he'd seen the thought of kisses in her eyes, he gave her a smile. It was a shy, fleeting expression, and one she had only ever seen on his face when he looked at her. No other woman had yet coaxed that look form him in her presence, and that was something she wished to stay exactly as it was. She was his and he was hers, and no one would come between them if she had anything to say about it.

"Then a friend I shall be," he murmured, his eyes warm with sincerity.

"Winterfell!" bellowed the forward riders, and a ragged cheer went up around them. The men they had joined were under the Stark banner, but they had been hired for the battle against the raiders in the north - which ad of course turned out to be the Boltons. With good service and honest work, these mercenaries could hope to be kept on as the winter deepened around them. It was a chance to keep their families fed, even if it was a long trek back to their villages between patrols.

In another two hours, they were under the shadow of Winterfell's rough stone walls. The gate opened for them and the men tramped in with triumphant smiles on their scruffy faces. There wasn't a man among them without a beard, and even the boys had some dark fuzz on their cheeks. Winter and war turned boys into men, and showed men for the boys they were. When the captain of the guard saw Jon, he shouted through the door for the maester and 'the new lady.' Daenerys exchanged a look with her lover, sensing that things were about to get sticky. Daenerys saw that Jon was looking up at the towers of his home, and when she followed his gaze, she saw that the white and grey banner of the Starks had been taken down, replaced with a black banner with a white sunburst. She thought it looked familiar, but didn't remember what family it belonged to.

"What's this? What's-"

The lady that emerged onto the steps of Winterfell was not Sansa, though there was something of the Lady of Winterfell in her face. More prominent, though, was the look of shock on her face as she recognized Jon in his bloodied armor. The King in the North was dismounting, and the motion cost him dear. He moved stiffly, and the anger on his face was not something that would be lightly dismissed.

"Alys. What is the Karstark banner doing over my family's hold?"

In all his jealous growling over the last three days, Jon hadn't once sounded quite so much like Ghost. As though summoned by her thoughts, a howl rose from the godswood, and Daenerys wondered if they had been foolish enough to lock the white direwolf away behind stone walls and iron bars.

"Snow. I didn't - Sansa called for me when the report came that you'd fallen in the battle. I didn't know-"

"What is your banner doing over my hold?" roared Jon, striding forward as though he intended to take off her head. But Longclaw wasn't in its sheath at his hip, and though he reached for it, the sword wasn't there to do his bidding.

The Karstark girl stumbled backward. "Sansa refused to rule alone! She asked for my help!" As Jon made a violent gesture, the girl threw up her hands to shield her face. Daenerys saw that although she wore a sword on her own belt, she made no move to draw it.

"Jon."

At her commanding tone, the man froze. She could see the beast just behind his eyes, the rage pulsing beneath his skin. He had told her about coming home to see the black and red of the Bolton's flayed man over Winterfell. She didn't blame him. But this girl was not his enemy.

"You are the Lady of Karhold?" Daenerys asked, dismounting and wishing she was wearing something a little more regal. She was sure she looked nothing like a queen.

Alys, lowering her arms cautiously, nodded. "Aye, Majesty. I am."

"See that the king's banner is raised over his hold."

"At once, Majesty."

"And Alys?"

"Aye?"

"I expect to see Sansa Stark at the evening meal tonight. We have words to exchange, she and I."

* * *

 

Steam rose from the spring under the frowning shadow of the outer wall. The godswood was enclosed by a high wall, made higher by the layers of hard-frozen snow that piled atop it. Even as the folk inside the hold scrambled to make ready for the king's sudden reappearance and the new legends springing up around him that said he couldn't die, Daenerys stripped off her borrowed clothes and stepped into the shallows of the hot spring. If there was a reason not to bathe here, she was having a very pleasant time ignoring it.

Jon was on his knees, cradling Ghost's head in his arms while Rhaegal watched from the wall above them. Between the two beasts, she was as safe as anyone could be, and with Jon nearby, she feared nothing. Nothing... except Drogon's fate. What had happened to him, after the battle? Had the giant found him? Would he come back to Winterfell, or would he stay out in the wilds? Would she ever see him again?

Those thoughts brought her to a standstill, and the water was only up to her knees.

"Dany?" Jon looked up from his beloved wolf, as thought he'd sensed her troubled thoughts.

"Rhaegal." She turned in the water, sending a spray of hot water up her legs as she looked up at the green dragon leaning through the topmost branches of the trees. Red leaves like bleeding hands caressed the bronze scales of his throat, and she heard her own breath as it hissed between her teeth. "Find your brother."

She didn't know if he would obey. She didn't even know if he would understand. Her dragons were smart, but they were opinionated and self-important, and only listened when it suited them. A lot like herself. Daenerys' lavender gaze met Rhaegal's vivid orange one, and they seemed to share something in that moment. They shared something important, and the understanding that snapped between them was like a violin string being plucked at just the right moment.

Rhaegal lifted his head, and again there were the bleeding hands of the heart tree petting his glossy scales. Huge wings swept upward, sending a chill breeze through the godswood and setting all the leaves chattering as he lifted himself into the air with long strokes of his wings, like long-fingered hands against the grey sky.

"You know, it's when you do things like that... no one can forget you're the Mother of Dragons."

For some reason, hearing him say that was painful. "Not even you?" she asked, the words escaping her as a mere whisper, almost lost in the hiss of the leaves around them. It was like the gods were passing gossip about them in a language none but the trees could understand.

"Not even me," Jon agreed, and left his direwolf to stand with her in the spring. The hot water soaked into his books, but he didn't seem to notice. "You are the strongest, smartest, most compassionate woman I've ever met, and that in all your interactions with the dragons. They love you as the people love you. As I love you. And someday... I hope you'll be mother to more dragons than just those that hatched for you in the flames." One of his hands dropped from her arm to brush the skin of her belly. The contact sent sizzling bolts of fire along her nerves, and she shivered, resisting the urge to pull away.

"You know I can't." Dany wished her voice wouldn't betray her so, shaking like a child about to cry.

"Even if we never make a child together, you and I will have an heir. I promised you that our first night here. I meant it then, and I mean it now."

She had no words. Not for him, not for herself. She had no words for anyone, least of all for the staring eyes and whispering hands of the heart tree. So instead, she kissed him. She covered his mouth with hers, filled him with herself, made sure there was no thought in his mind that was not of her. She was his. He was hers. The gods would see the truth of that.


	5. A Stark's Duty

She was still in the spring when the door from the keep flew open with a bang. Jon looked up from scrubbing her back, a game which they both enjoyed more than was strictly appropriate, and straightened. A motion of his hand seemed to say he wanted to reach for his tunic, but Dany stopped him, giving him a quick glance. If they wanted to interrupt, they would see the consequences.

"Jon?" That was Sansa's voice, shrill with something uncomfortably like fear.

"My Lord?" And that voice belonged to the old maester... what's-his-name. Jon's posture immediately tensed, and he actually pushed her down into the water. Dany slipped and sat down hard on the slick stones of the spring's floor, the water seeming to jump up under her chin and slosh around her neck as Jon stood over her. At first, she was insulted. Why would he push her around like that? She was no serving wench to be hidden in the shadows when witnesses were present.

Then the Mother of Dragons looked up into her lover's face and saw the look of possessive jealousy in his grey eyes, and remembered what he'd said when they had joined his men on the road. She was his woman, and he wouldn't share. He didn't want another man, not even a maester, to see her naked body.

"What brings you here?" Jon called, lifting a hand as if to conceal the wound on his shoulder. Now that it was cleaned, it didn't look so bad, though still red and somewhat swollen.

"Jon!" Sansa came charging through the mist, splashed through the shallows and almost tripped over Daenerys as she threw herself at her brother. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face streaked with tears. "I thought you - they said you were dead! Oh, thank the gods!"

It was just as well that the woman was crying, for she wouldn't be able to see the look of disgust that flashed across Jon's face.

"Sansa," he snapped, "is this how a Stark behaves?" Roughly, he disengaged from her, holding her at arm's length.

"You sound just like Father," she muttered, scrubbing her face with one flowing sleeve.

"And you're acting like a child. Calling in a Karstark to rule in your place? What were you thinking?"

"I was in mourning! You can't expect everyone to be made of ice like you, Jon."

"You're a Stark. There has always been a Stark in Winterfell, and no mourning will ever change that. Pull yourself together. Winterfell needs you." He gave her a shake that rattled her teeth, and Sansa yelped, grabbing his arms for support.

Daenerys slid away through the water, moving toward the middle of the spring where the water was hottest and deepest. It felt good against her skin, soothing the aches of bruises she had ignored until then. Her movement, though, attracted Sansa's attention. Though she made a curtsy as well as she could, still held by her brother, her expression said 'what's she doing here?'

"Your Highness." Her tone was just polite enough to not be impertinent.

Jon heard the disrespect all the same, and gave her a solid push, so she stumbled out of the spring. "I expect you at supper tonight. Go clean yourself up and don't come back until you're presentable." When she didn't move, he took a step toward her, his breeches dark to the knee where the hot water had soaked him to the skin.

"Your Majesty," Sansa muttered, looking hurt as she retreated. The maester approached then - Wolkan, that was his name - with his black bag of herbs and poultices. Without a word, he set the bag down and started to treat Jon's shoulder, which the King in the North neither commented on nor resisted.

"She was very distressed when we heard you had fallen in battle."

"Distressed or not, she is a Stark. Starks do what they must for Winterfell and the North." Jon's words were as hard and unyielding as the stone on which his keep was built.

"And, if I might be so bold, My Lord... the southern kingdoms?"

"What of them?"

"You seek to marry the southern queen, do you not?"

Jon let out a bark of laughter that quite confused the old man, and when Jon saw his expression, his only answer was to point toward the middle of the spring, where Daenerys was treading water and watching them. The maester turned white as a sheet and started stammering apologies, but Dany couldn't bring herself to be angry at his pert question. After all, it was a legitimate difficulty, and once that she and Jon still needed to discuss more seriously than they had so far. She was a queen and he was a king, but their kingdoms were unlikely to accept a union in any political sense.

"See to his wounds, Maester," she assured him. "I've taken no offense."

Jon glanced at her, and it was good to see him smile again, after the fuss with the Karstark girl and then with Sansa. She'd never liked the redhead very much, and her reaction to seeing that Dany and Jon were together hadn't really helped Sansa's case any.

"This wound is deep. You'll need to rest once this is treated."

Jon looked like he might have wanted to roll his eyes, but it wasn't like him to be so disrespectful, so instead he nodded. "Of course, Maester Wolkan. A night of sleep in a real bed will help immensely, I think." Again, he met Dany's gaze, and they shared a smile. Sleeping wasn't all they would do tonight, she guessed, but if she had her way, she would make sure he rested.

* * *

 

_ Maybe this is what home smells like. _

Warm leather and wool, sheep tallow, steam and hot stone. The scents swirled around her like a warm embrace, making her feel safe. That was something she had never understood, and now she wondered if Winterfell was the home she had hoped for all those years. The red door came briefly to mind, and again she felt the longing of the little girl she used to be for someplace to call her own. 

With a sigh, Daenerys tilted her head, pulling her hair around her shoulder to brush it carefully. The comb in her hand was ivory, carved along its spine with the forms of running wolves. Jon hadn't said where it had come from when he gave it to her, but she had an idea that it might have belonged to someone dear to him. As she combed the tangles from her drying locks, she watched the wolves run along the waves of ivory snow. Whoever had carved the comb was skilled indeed.

The fire on the hearth fluttered like a banner in the wind as someone opened the door, and Dany turned on her stool, fully aware that this movement would bring her bare breasts into full view of whomever was at the door. If it was Jon, it would embarrass him, and if it was a servant, it would teach them to knock first.

It was Jon.

He stood framed in the doorway, shirtless, clean, and bandaged. His dark hair hung in damp waves around his face, which was pale and shadowed with exhaustion. Standing, Dany put down her comb and went to him, the whispering rustle of hair against bare skin blending with the crackle of the fire. The man's eyes followed her, glassy with a combination of pain and attraction. A faint smile overspread her lips as she took his hand and drew him to her.

"You need sleep," she murmured. Supper had been an unusually long meal, all things considered. Between Jon and Sansa, the whole table had eaten in almost icy silence, though the food was good. When the meal was concluded, they were finally free to return to their rooms, which was all Dany wanted for either herself or Jon, but the King in the North had needed to see to "just one more thing." All to the good. It had given her a chance to undress once more. She was starting to rather like going without clothing.

"I need you," he replied in a low growl, and a truly foolish expression spread across his face. She couldn't help but laugh, more prepared this time when his free hand grasped a handful of her flesh with gentle fingers. Smiling, she stroked the inside of one of his long thighs, and was rewarded with a shudder and a gasp that seemed to come up from his very toes.

"Bed," she ordered, and this time, he didn't protest. With her fingers tangled in the laces of his breeches, it was the work of a moment to steer him to the massive bed they shared and lay him out flat on his back. The music of her name on his tongue and the soft slap of skin against skin was all she needed to complete her feeling of home, but his arms around her weren't at all unwelcome. Their lovemaking was sweet and warm and filled her. It was a satisfaction she couldn't express in words, this feeling of being made for another as a glove is made for a hand. The wetness of his seed was a kiss between her legs, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine, just for a moment, that she might bear him a son. That the boy that might have been hers might yet be hers, and by a man she loved almost more than life itself.

Outside the window, a wolf howled, and the hollow stomping of a dragon walking over the snow brought the last of her contentment to roost in her breast. Rhaegal and Drogon were back. Ghost was free to follow his instincts and come when his master called. Jon's cheek was warm, his head heavy against her breast as he struggled against sleep. Smiling softly she ran her fingers through his hair and hummed to him tunelessly. She knew no lullabies, or she might sing him one, but the effect of her voice seemed enough for him.

Jon's long, lithe body slowly relaxed, pressing her down into the embrace of the bed as his breathing deepened. He would sleep. He needed sleep. And she had an excuse not to move. She would watch over him. Dragon and wolf. Wolf and dragon.

_He is mine and I am his_ , she reflected, and let her eyes close again. _I paid in blood and fear and dragonflesh. This is my home, and I won't give it up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture provided by House_Hornwood as inspiration for this story. One more chapter (epilogue) to come next week. 
> 
> So here's my question for you, Inklings - if I were to write a story in another Fandom, what Fandom would/should it be?   
> \- Disney Princesses (think fractured fairytales)  
> \- Avatar: The Last Airbender (alternate history)  
> or  
> \- Hunger Games (probably a crossover)
> 
> I look forward to seeing your answers in the comments below. Until then, stay awesome and have an great weekend.


	6. Epilogue: Don't Drop It

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The pressure on her abdomen was so great that she couldn't move. Someone was chanting advice to her that she neither heard nor listened to. How could anyone expect her to think when everything below her waist was on fire? The air was thick with the smell of blood and Dany arched her back as her whole body convulsed, screaming for Jon and knowing in a distant way that he wouldn't come. Not until it was done.

As she collapsed back against the wall, sobbing for breath, a cry of joy came from the man whose balding head was only partially visible between her legs.

"Here he is! You've done it, my lady! Your son is born!" He sounded exultant, and her mind couldn't comprehend why he was so happy. Not at first. A maidservant with swollen fingers from Dany's crushing grip helped her to the bed, and the woman fell onto the cushions, too exhausted even to think about how old Maester Wolkan had seen every inch of her flesh, from crown to toe.

A thin, pathetic wail came from the bundle in the Maester's arms, and as he approached, he swaddled the babe with practiced ease and pressed the infant into her arms. She didn't want to hold a baby. She was tired. She wanted to sleep.

Then she looked into his tiny face. Her son's skin was red and wrinkled, like he had spent too long in a very warm bath. But she could see in his round, baby-soft features, that reflection of the man he would be. A strong jaw, the signature Stark nose, and he had Jon's ears. She saw all this in a moment, but she kept looking, drinking in his appearance even as she began to reflexively bounce him a little in her arms, as she had seen other women do.

"You're alright. You're alive and well, my little one," she crooned, and felt the wonder of the words even as she said them. He was alive. Alive and well and whole. Struck by sudden anxiety, she opened the baby's blanket to look at the rest of him. Yes, all his fingers were there, and all his perfect little toes. His belly still showed the ragged remains of the torn cord that had linked his life to hers while she carried him, and when she looked at Maester Wolkan in concern, he smiled.

"It will dry up and fall away in a few days, my lady," he assured her. "That is normal for all children."

Carefully, she replaced the blanket, tucking it tightly around his little body and pulling him close to her chest, as if to keep him warm, though the room was already stifling. She liked it that way, and Jon almost always undid all the good of it by opening the window at night. Not this night. Not while their son was here. Their son.

"Our son," she murmured, and closed her eyes. Only for a moment, she told herself. She would only close them for a moment, just to rest. Then she would feed him. But when she opened her eyes, she knew at once she must have slept, because the maidservants and the Maester were gone, and in their place there was Jon. He sat on the chair beside their bed, looking down at her with such a tender expression that she nearly blushed.

"Our son," she repeated faintly, and showed him the tiny babe.

"He's perfect," said Jon in a whisper, and smiled broadly when the infant opened his eyes, round and soft and unfocused. "He has your eyes." Jon grinned delightedly, brushing the babe's downy cheek with one calloused finger.

"I suppose he does." Dany looked down into the little face, seeing that her son's eyes were pale lavender, almost blue. She had a feeling that they would darken. Maybe someone had told her that once - that babies' eyes got darker as they grew. "But he has your ears."

"Do you like my ears?" asked Jon, looking almost concerned.

Dany laughed. "I love your ears. They're yours, and therefore mine. Of course I love them."

The infant started to wail, and at first, Dany didn't know what to do. A maidservant came in and showed her how to hold the baby so she might give suck, and her son latched onto her breast and began to feed hungrily. It actually felt pleasant, which was both a surprise and almost soporific. She felt her body reacting to the sensation by relaxing,and blinked heavily.

"Don't let me drop him."

In a moment, Jon was in the bed beside her, covering them both with a soft, heavy lambskin. "I won't. I promise."

"Jon?" Her eyelids were so heavy. It was hard to keep them open.

"Yes?"

"Why do you love me?"

"Because you have my heart. I couldn't do anything but love you."

"And you have mine." This was nonsense. She was half asleep. "Don't drop it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> I've received some feedback, and it looks like, after I finish Hobbit Holocaust (which I should post another chapter on later today) I'll be working on an old idea that's gotten a relatively new twist: Dragon Sickness. Next up after that, Stone Speaker (which some of you might remember as the follow-up for Tilly's Birthday. (Good luck finding that, when I can't remember the title myself!) 
> 
> Until next time, try not to overwork yourselves and whatnot!

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you might have noticed that the other 5 chapters of this work were taken down shortly after they were posted. This is by request of House_Hornwood, who commissioned the piece. I will post a new chapter each Friday until all 6 chapters are up. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and understanding.


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